


"The Struggle of the Proletariat with the Bourgeoisie Monster", or, "We Put the Flay in Soufflé"

by DecoySocktopus



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Communism, Crying, Do Not Archive, Double Penetration in One Hole, Gags, M/M, Nonconathon Treat, Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-05-19 04:01:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14866211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DecoySocktopus/pseuds/DecoySocktopus
Summary: Jon gets thoroughly moisturised.





	"The Struggle of the Proletariat with the Bourgeoisie Monster", or, "We Put the Flay in Soufflé"

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zai42](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zai42/gifts).



> Content Warnings for this atrocity are available in the notes at the end.

Jon has always been infamous for his rather grim outlook on life.

That being said, sitting naked on a chair in an abandoned building, surrounded by inanimate waxworks, his wrists zip-tied behind him, he can’t help but feel that his pessimism is somewhat justified. It is dark and cold. His arms keep going numb. And the long-awaited rescue party seems to be taking its damn time to arrive; Jon can’t be sure exactly how long he’s been kept in his current state, but he’s certain it’s longer than he would have liked.

He has neither eaten nor drunk since they brought him here. He hasn’t felt the need. And yet, he’s been here at least a week. Maybe longer.

Not that he has any way of knowing for sure.

Nikola stops by occasionally to gloat, or to click on the tape recorder and toss a few taunts at Elias while Jon mutters threats behind his gag. Once, she whips out a string of measuring tape and presses it all over him. She tells him he’ll do _very nicely_. Jon grinds his teeth so hard he risks breaking them.

Most of his company consists of Breekon and Hope, if _company_ is the correct term. They come and go, dragging their coffin between them, talking in their forced, fake accents. They never address him directly. Sometimes they find themselves places among the ranks of frozen waxworks, and go still. They stay that way for a long time. Unmoving. Standing silent, except for the laughter.

He hears them long before they arrive. The coffin doesn’t lend itself to subtlety. It rattles and clanks on the ground like an incoming train, and with it come the monsters.

“Don’t understand why she couldn’t go herself. I mean, it’s not as if we don’t have our own jobs to do. But no, it’s, ‘here, you two, go and buy up some lotion for the Archivist, because I’m much too busy being important to do it myself’. Bloody slave driver is what she is.”

“Exploitation of the common working monster. Serve her right if we went to the union about it.”

“Do we even have a union?”

“Suppose not, now you mention it.”

The coffin hits the ground with thud that echoes around the room; the waxwork silhouettes nearby tremble, a ripple of quivers spreading outwards from the epicentre. It lasts a lot longer than it should. In the silence that follows, Jon hears a plasticky rustling.

“Well, if her Royal Highness don’t like our selections, she’s more than welcome to get off her bottle and buy her own lotion, is what I’m saying. What did we end up with, Hope? I weren’t paying attention.”

The rustling continues. “Can’t pronounce this one,” Hope says sadly. “Looks French. And you know how I get about the French.”

“That I do, Hope, that I do. Put it aside for the boss, she’ll appreciate it. How about this ‘Coconut Oil Formula Firming Body Lotion’, you reckon that might do the trick?”

“Yeah, I suppose. We do need him nice and firm for the peeling.” Bottle clink in a plastic bag. Jon strains his eyes against the darkness. The hulking shapes ignore him.

“Here, this one says it’s a… _Body Soufflé_. It don’t smell like much of a soufflé to me.” Jon hears a cap being unscrewed, and smells something faintly flowery. There is the horrible sound of someone smacking their lips. “Don’t taste all that much like a soufflé, either. I suppose they got the packaging wrong. What a shame. I do like a good soufflé.”

“You’ve never had a soufflé in your life, Breekon.”

“I have. Had one just last week. Nice and fresh and bloody.”

“Nah, see, you’re getting it mixed up. A soufflé ain’t got no flaying in it.”

“Hasn’t it?”

“Nah. It’s just more of that French. God, I hate the French.”

“Jam rolls, the lot of them.”

Jon makes a disgusted sound against the gag. It’s typical, he reflects, that as soon as it seems that life has done its absolute worst to him, he is inevitably surprised by something worse yet. It’s not enough that he’s tied up in a wax museum awaiting certain painful death; now the monsters guarding him are trying their hand at bloody rhyming slang.

An irritatingly inquisitive part of him wonders how they managed to learn it. A trip to the library? A quick look around on Google? Or did they just snatch a couple of people speaking in the correct accents from the street and, what, devour them?

Despite the circumstances, he itches to ask.

There is more rustling. Jon gives a half-hearted pull at the plastic zip tie around his wrists. He has heard that there are ways to snap the things, but given that he’s been trying to work those ways out the entire time he’s been kept captive, a breakthrough doesn’t seem likely.

“How about this ‘Rich Nourishing Body Moisturiser For Dry Skin?” Breekon asks. “His skin looks dry to me. The state of his hands, can you Adam and Eve it?”

“Dreadful.”

“Can you please stop doing that,” Jon tries to say; with the gag in place, he only manages an incoherent mumble. Nikola doesn’t seem to have any trouble understanding him, when she bothers to listen. Breekon and Hope either don’t share this talent or simply don’t care.

He flinches as Breekon looms over him abruptly, the featureless grey overalls hanging like sacking on his large frame.

“Alright there, Archivist?” he says. “It’s time for your beauty treatment. Don’t mind us.” He has a pocket knife in his hands. Jon cringes away from it, making muffled denials behind his gag, tucking his chin down to protect his neck. But it turns out to be unnecessary; Breekon leans over him and slices the zip tie holding his hands together behind his back.

He smells utterly appalling. Jon retches, and while he is occupied with trying to pull himself together, his hands are hauled out in front of him.

After days of being tied in one position, his muscles immediately start screaming. Jon gives a pained groan.

He is ignored. Breekon wields a plastic bottle with clear distaste, dumping scented lotion into Jon’s palms. He passes the bottle to Hope, who appears out of the darkness at his side, and starts to massage lotion into Jon’s hands, his wrists, and then his forearms.

There is something very wrong with Breekon’s skin.

When his hands are forced back behind him, Jon protests.

“Leave them,” he says, “I’m not stupid enough to try anything, just leave them, damn you, that _hurts_.” The gag doesn’t allow him much in the way of communication; he’s not altogether surprised to find himself ignored. Hope pulls a fresh zip tie from a pocket in his overalls. They bind Jon’s hands against the small of his back while he wriggles and complains incoherently about pins and needles.

The bottle of lotion is passed back and forth as they start on his face, neck and shoulders. Jon cringes at every moment of contact; it’s wrong, they feel wrong, nobody’s skin should feel like that.

If nothing else, at least they’re quick about it; he’s forced to close his eyes to avoid getting lotion shoved into them by careless hands.

“Could we make our own, d’you reckon?” Hope says abruptly, spreading lotion across the underside of Jon’s chin.

“Our own what, Hope?”

“Union. Could we make our own union?”

Breekon slaps lotion onto Jon’s shoulders. “Don’t see why not. Some of them dancers might want to join, what with having to rehearse all the time, and no breaks for any of them. Do themselves a damage if they’re not careful. They should go on strike and demand some better working conditions.”

“The proletarians have nothing to lose but their chains.”

“A truer word was never spoken, me old turtle.” Without warning, the knife comes out again. Breekon crouches down to slash the restraints keeping Jon’s legs secured to the chair. When he stands, he seizes a hank of Jon’s hair and pulls him upright.

“My legs have gone _dead_ , you _idiots_ ,” Jon snarls, tottering, unbalanced. Breekon doesn’t relinquish the grip on his hair until he’s somewhat stable. It’s unnerving to see just how little Jon’s weight affects him; granted, he and Hope spend a lot of time carrying their coffin around, apparently unconcerned. But Breekon bears Jon’s weight as if there isn’t any. As if his bones are hollow, his skin an empty sack.

Jon flinches as Hope slaps lotion all over his chest and stomach. Breekon gets started on his back. It’s tempting to try and kick one or both of them somewhere painful, to see if he can break loose and find the exit. But Jon doesn’t quite dare. They are both significantly larger than he is, muscled in a way that he is not. And neither of them is human. He can’t afford to forget that.

“This lotion thing’s a lot of bother,” Breekon comments. “How often d’you think we have to apply it?”

“Every day, Nikola said.”

“I could do it myself,” Jon mutters through the gag. “If you leave me untied, I could- _Jesus Christ_.” He makes a garbled sound of protest as Hope grabs his cock without warning and starts applying lotion. “Get off me right now, I mean it!” Jon tries to kick at the monster’s shins; he only manages a stumble, and Breekon grabs his hair again to keep him standing.

“Think he might be a bit ticklish there,” Hope comments. “Better not wriggle like that when Nikola starts peeling you, Archivist. She might slip.” Any further argument Jon might have made fades into terrified silence as the lotion is spread carelessly down the length of his cock and across his inner thighs.

His body at least knows better than to react. It’s been a long time since anyone else touched him, and some response would be understandable, but Jon doesn’t think he’s ever been less aroused in his _life_. He winces as Hope grips him much too tight. Finds himself rising up onto his tiptoes as his balls are grabbed in a similar rough hand. The sound he makes is embarrassingly high pitched.

Breekon compounds the problem by reaching Jon’s arse, slapping him hard when he tries to flinch away.

“Do you _mind_?” Jon howls. “Would it kill you lot to leave me with just a little bit of dignity intact?” Of course, what comes out through the gag is something along the lines of _mrmph mrph mphh???_ , but the tone is perfectly clear.

The lotion is spread past his tailbone, smeared roughly over his hole. Jon shouts disapproval into the gag.

And then he shouts terrified discomfort as one large finger forces its careless way inside him.

“Oh, he don’t like that much,” Hope observes. He’s done with Jon’s cock, and is now crouching to work on his knees. “But Nikola did say to be thorough.”

“That she did, Hope, and I won’t have it said that I don’t take pride in me work. If a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well.” A second lotion-covered finger thrusts in beside the first, large enough that Jon’s muscles start protesting the stretch. He tries to turn, to pull himself free of Breekon’s fingers, and finds the monster’s free arm abruptly around his throat, cutting off his air.

“Here,” Hope says. “He just tried to kick me, he did.”

“Can’t have that,” Breekon agrees. “It all comes back to hazardous working conditions, know what I mean? You ought to make a complaint. Tell you what, let’s get him back on that chair. Hold him up for me.”

Jon grunts as the fingers are abruptly removed, leaving a lingering ache and his dignity in tatters. But the arm around his neck is gone too, and he sucks in grateful breaths through the gag. Any thoughts of escape are quickly dashed. Hope stands, looming over him, holding him in place by the shoulders.

His hands. They’re wrong they’re…they don’t feel right. This is not how hands should feel.

Behind him, Jon hears a clink of buckles, the sound of several zips being undone, the slap of lotion on skin. The creak of the chair as it protests under Breekon’s weight.

“Which way d’you want him?” Hope asks.

“Other way around, mate. Easier on me poor old back.”

“Right you are, Breekon.” Jon is unceremoniously turned around, Hope’s hands still a vice on his shoulders. He stumbles. Finds himself being helped into Breekon’s lap, though _helped_ would imply that he had any desire to be there in the first place.

The darkness spares him from having to look too closely at the monster underneath him.

But perhaps that’s a mixed blessing; Jon feels something very solid brush his thigh, smearing lotion on him. For a moment, his heart stands still.

“No,” he says into the gag. “ _No_ , okay, just, can we talk about this, I don’t think Nikola told you to do this, fuck _off_ you _bastards_ -” he’s fighting in earnest now, pulling at the zip tie that keeps his hands trapped behind him, trying to wriggle free of Breekon’s lap. He sucks in air through his nose, swift and terrified. But Hope’s hands are on his shoulders, forcing him inexorably down. Stronger by far than they should be. Breekon guides him into place.

Jon gives a high, agonised shriek as Breekon’s cock begins to force its way into him, though he fights to keep it out. Clenching his muscles turns out to be a mistake; he’s breached anyway, wriggling pitifully against Hope’s hands. His heart races terrifyingly fast. And the pain. There is so much pain.

“I wouldn’t bother fighting if I were you,” Breekon tells him. “You haven’t got a weaver’s of getting away.”

“ _Stop talking like that_ ,” Jon screams through the gag. He thinks he might be half-mad with how much it hurts; he’s put briefly into mind of meeting Jude, shaking her hand as the heat of her made his skin bubble and melt, of thinking that nothing would ever hurt him that much again. This is not quite the same pain. Not quite _that_. But it’s more than enough to shatter his usual orderly mindset, reducing him to instinct and agony and rage. “Stop putting on your _stupid fucking accents_ , you can’t even do them properly- _argh_.”

He howls wordless fury as his thighs come into contact with Breekon’s overalls, the oversized intrusion thrust in to the hilt, deeper than he would have thought possible. It leaves him slightly dazed. Somehow, it just doesn’t seem physically possible. And yet.

At least they’re not lacking in lubrication. The sheer amount of lotion spread all over Breekon’s cock has seen to that, at least.

 _Well, that’s one way to make sure it gets everywhere_ , Jon thinks hysterically. He is distracted by Breekon’s hands digging into his hips, lifting him up. The slide of Breekon’s cock against the edges of his hole is almost unbearable, as are the slick sounds of the lotion. There is no way to struggle free, though he tries; Hope still has him by the shoulders, and as the tip of Breekon’s cock catches on the edge of his hole, Jon finds himself being pushed back down on it. He gives a long, drawn-out moan. His insides feel seared raw.

They push and pull him, sliding him along the length of Breekon’s cock, careless of Jon’s increasingly distressed noises. There are tears forming in his eyes. His one comfort is that, in the dark, the monsters won’t be able to see them.

“We don’t get paid enough for this,” Breekon remarks. “Know what I mean? Deliveries is one thing, but I ain’t never signed up for all this extra work.”

“I don’t think we get paid at all, Breekon.”

“It’s bleedin’ oppression, is what it is. It’s the struggle of the proletariat with the bourgeoisie monster, and I’m not happy about it.”

At this point, Jon makes a serious effort to head butt the monster. He doesn’t have much of a goal in mind beyond shutting Breekon up; his forehead connects with something solid, and for a moment Jon sees stars.

“Ouch,” Breekon says. “Did you see what he just did to me?”

The hands on Jon’s shoulders tighten cruelly, grinding against his bones. “Shouldn’t have done that,” Hope says that. “We was just doing our jobs, like Nikola told us. Nothing personal. We was going to do the work and then let you have some peace and quiet. What’d you go and do that for?”

Jon tries to focus, past the pain and his swimming vision. Thinking is difficult. Instead, he latches onto rage. “I hope I broke his damn nose,” he snarls into the gag. “I hope I caved his _face_ in, and I hope it hurts. And when Elias finally sends Daisy to rescue me, I hope she takes her time about taking you both apart. I hope it _hurts_. You disgusting, hideous… _things_.”

“Dunno what he’s saying,” Breekon says. “Doesn’t sound very nice, does it?”

“No, it does not. D’you know what, Breekon, I don’t think he likes us much.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Jon snarls. “I hope your bloody union collapses.”

“I’m sensing a lot of unwarranted hostility,” Breekon says. “Suppose we’ll just have to teach him a lesson.”

“That we will, Breekon.”

Jon groans as he’s lifted up again, sliding up Breekon’s cock until it sits just barely inside him, tantalisingly close to pulling free. He tries to brace himself for the inevitable drop. He tells himself he won’t scream when it happens. He won’t give them the satisfaction.

Nothing happens. Hope’s hands leave his shoulders; Jon hears a couple of metallic clicks behind him. The wet sound of lotion being poured into a hand that doesn’t feel anything like a hand should.

“It’s probably for the best anyway,” Breekon comments. “Can’t have Nikola saying we missed a spot, now, can we? We’d never hear the end of it.” His hands shift to Jon’s thighs where they straddle his lap, forcing them further apart as Jon struggles to stay upright, to keep himself from sliding back down.

Rough fingers find the stretched rim of his hole, smearing lotion around it, pushing it in past Breekon’s cock. And suddenly, Jon understands.

For a moment he finds himself speechless. Pure terror leaves his mind utterly blank.

The blunt head of Hope’s cock nudges against his hole. Slippery with lotion, it begins its slow, inexorable entry.

Jon finds the breath to scream.

He goes a bit blank after that. There are no more muffled insults, no muted curses behind the hateful gag. No more words; he is reduced to high, inhuman shrieks, to sub vocal whimpers whenever he has the strength to draw breath. Hope’s cock stretches him open beyond anything he’s ever felt before. The pain is indescribable.

Jon finds tears pouring down his cheeks; they are the least of his problems, but he hates them anyway. He hates that his heart pounds so fast it leaves him dizzy, that his clenched hands are sweaty and shaking, that he cannot tell if it’s lotion or blood dripping down his thighs. He hates the way he is manhandled into moving. He hates the fingers that prod at his stretched hole, tugging at its edges until Jon screams himself into silence.

There isn’t space for them to fuck him properly; instead, Jon is subjected to rough, awkward thrusts that feel as if they might tear him open at any second. At some point, a lotion-smeared hand fumbles its way around the front of him and grips his flaccid cock. Jon has no idea which of the monsters it belongs to. He doesn’t care. It pumps at him clumsily, bringing him to reluctant hardness.

They actually bother to get him off. That might be the worst part; Jon is long past focus by that stage, but he is aware of hands tugging at his cock, taking turns to give him a grip to thrust into. It almost feels like a competition between them; he doesn’t care. At some point, it all becomes too much.

Jon doesn’t make a sound as he comes. His throat is raw from screaming.

The monsters don’t take their time about pulling free of him. They slide out, slick with lotion, leaving Jon feeling empty, wet, used. He is dragged over to lie on a solid surface.

There is a scratching sound from under his cheek, and Jon realises he’s been placed on the lid of the coffin. The thing inside can sense his weight. It reaches.

He doesn’t care. If it will make the pain stop, make _everything_ stop, it’s more than welcome to him.

“There,” says Breekon, or maybe Hope. “Now let’s all have ourselves a nice rest after a job well done. Nikola can’t complain about that.”

“If you need anything, you just let us know.”

“Yeah. And if not, well. We’ll be seeing you tomorrow.”

Jon makes a dazed sound of inquiry behind his gag. Someone pats him roughly on the head.

“Got to make sure you’re nice and soft, know what I mean? Can’t have you going back to your bad old ways.”

“Can’t have that,” agrees Hope, or maybe Breekon. “So we’ll just have to make it a daily routine, until Nikola says you’re ready for peeling. Could be a while. But I suppose that’s just part of the job.”

They fade back into the shadows and the waxworks, their voices fading with them.

“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, Hope; we ought to get ourselves unionised. Proper wages and vacation time, that sort of thing. It makes a difference. I think that’s where we went wrong last time we tried it.”

“Don’t see why it didn’t work. We was in Russia and all.”

“Yeah, but we was all focused on abolishing the bourgeois property, except that _we’re_ property ourselves, know what I mean? This time around we need to focus on wage-labour.”

“Yeah. You might be right.”

They go silent; their silhouettes blend in with the waxworks, until Jon is no longer certain which is which. If he strains his ears, he thinks he can make out the occasional low chuckle. The muted scratching under his cheek continues.

His hands are the only things tied, but Jon already knows he won’t be making a run for it. His legs won’t support him. He has no way of knowing where the exit is, and he doubts Breekon and Hope would allow him to get far. Maybe they’d stand over him while he crawled. Maybe they’d laugh. Maybe they’d decide he needs more lotion.

And tomorrow, whenever that is, it will all happen again. Jon closes his eyes against the tears that blind him. He resents that he can’t make them stop. Even that is beyond his control.

And then, from somewhere in the shadows, he hears a soft and subtle creak.

Like the sound of a door sliding open.

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warning for:  
> -mild body horror  
> -sadism  
> -bad fake accents  
> -sexual assault  
> -Communism


End file.
